Page 94 of Power Moves
My eyes fall to the floor. I remember the stench of the wine on Boss’s breath, the shape of his body against mine. Then I remember my awkward laugh and the skirts—all the fucking skirts. Am I nothing more than a giant prick-tease masquerading as a competent employee?
My eyes lift to meet Archie’s. ‘No,’ I whisper.
Archie doesn’t blink but he drops his hand and takes a half-step back so the door closes between us. As my fingers hurriedly slide the deadlock into place, my brain absorbs a terrifying, irrefutable truth: Archie can read my mind. He knows exactly what happened.
CHAPTER 42
The dining room is quiet, save for the clanging of tongs against the steel bains-marie. A pink light slides through the windows, casting the hotel buffet in a rosy glow. It’s 6 a.m. and my packed trolley bag is parked next to my seat.
‘Wanna head off in half an hour?’ asks Boss, appearing at the table. He’s fully dressed in his country casuals: pristine moleskins and a designer-brand striped shirt, like a cashed-up dude cosplaying Slim Dusty. Against the faded grey carpet of the simple hotel dining room, he looks too clean, too artificial. A shaft of sunlight glints off his freshly showered hair, which is combed back slickly off his face.Bond villain, I think suddenly. That’s what he looks like.
Boss drops his satchel and a coat-hangered garment bag on the spare chair and ambles to the breakfast bar, humming to himself as if it’s any other day on tour. I swallow a lump of toast that suddenly tastes like mud. Boss doesn’t normallysurface until 8 a.m. so I thought I’d have a sliver of time to work out how to escape from here without him.
‘We’ll get to Sydney around midday,’ Boss says, strolling back with a bowl full of muesli and fruit. He sits down opposite me. ‘Did you see what theBetoota Advocateposted this morning? So funny. And hey, should we stop at the Junee chocolate shop on the way back? Apparently they have the best liquorice bullets. I was thinking I’d grab some for Rory and Allegra.’
‘W-what?’ I stammer. Boss has just been publicly outed as having had an affair, tried to kiss his staffer (me), and now he’s breezily chatting about satire and chocolate, both of which I love, butstill. Did the thing that happened in the corridor scramble my brain?
‘About last night,’ Boss says, reading my mind. His eyes dart left and right as he lowers his voice. ‘Allegra and I have always had … let’s call them “friends”. She’s had her fun, I’ve had mine. We’re okay with that. We understand each other. But I get the sense you were taken aback, and I agree that we had too much malbec. I thought I was getting some signs …’
I turn crimson-red as Boss clears his throat and continues.
‘You know I think you’re amazing, Mill, but it’s easier if we pretend that never happened.’ He flashes me a warm smile—the one he uses with lobbyists. ‘I would never have made a move unless I thought you wanted it.’
I suspect I’m now a shade of mottled burgundy.
‘Ooh, I wonder if she can make me a macchiato,’ says Boss, noticing a short waitress with curly grey hair shuffling intothe dining room with a plate full of pastries. He stands to chase her—passing the bubbling coffee urn on his way—as I stare at my plate of soggy eggs and limp toast.
Within what feels like seconds, the waitress arrives at our table with a steaming hot macchiato, clucking over her shoulder in the manner of a country grandma who loves a chat.
‘Oh, you poor love, at least you can have a break after the election,’ she says to Boss, who’s behind her carrying a jug of water and two glasses.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Boss replies, feigning modesty with all the conviction of a used car salesman. ‘I’m thinking the day after we win the election, we’ll go to Broken Hill. Then we can stay on the road for a few weeks to make it really clear we’re up for the challenge of another four-year term.’ He looks to me, as if for support. ‘This is my superstar media director, Mill, by the way,’ he explains, gesturing to me. ‘She gave me the idea for the Broken Hill trip. She’s all about the optics.’
Then, to my extreme mortification, he winks at me. Not a furtive wink—a very public wink that may as well say,Yes, my staffer and I share many inside jokes, and at one point—aka last night—I was very comfortable with the idea of having sex with her.
‘Ah, you’re going to help your boss win the election?’ says the waitress, gently teasing.
‘Oh, er—’
‘She is,’ interjects Boss. ‘Couldn’t survive without her. We’re stuck together until the political grave, which is hopefully a long way off yet. Until then, she’s all mine.’
I try to force my major facial muscles into something resembling a neutral expression, but it’s impossible to unclench my jaw. Does he always talk like this and I’m only noticing because of last night?
‘Enjoy the trip back to Sydney,’ says the waitress as she waddles off.
Boss smiles. ‘We will.’
I want to fall to the floor and wail. Am I really going to do this for another four years?
Boss sits down and opens his phone, speaking to me as he scrolls. ‘Have you heard that the Prime Minister is going to be in town next week? I was thinking you could set something up for us.’
He says it so casually, so nonchalantly, as though setting up a joint press conference with the Prime Minister will be as easy as skimming the milky foam off his fresh coffee.
Just set something up.
If you’ve got a moment.
If it’s not too much trouble.
